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by neville



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Disaster Gays, Fluff, High School, M/M, Modern Era, Romantic Soulmates, Sexuality Crisis, Soulmates, also there's food in like every scene, but it's really cute i swear, everyone is trying to help sam, everyone loves sam, everyone ships frodo and sam, gimli provides terrible advice, sam and frodo avoid sorting things out, the high school mood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 13:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neville/pseuds/neville
Summary: Sam's seventeenth birthday rolls around: the day that the name of his soulmate will appear on his palm. The thing is, he just didn't expect it to be Frodo...





	1. frodo

**Author's Note:**

> So, I watched LOTR for the very first time just a few weeks ago, when I was sick, and I can't believe I've been missing out on it for so long. Naturally, I had to immediately write a fanfiction for it. Hope you enjoy it!

 

 

> _Home is where I want to be_  
>  _But I guess I'm already there  
>  __-_ Talking Heads, “This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)”
> 
>   
>    
>  _Oh but please_  
>  _Please wake me_  
>  _For my love lies patiently  
>  __-_ LCD Soundsystem,  “oh baby”

 

There are a whole host of reasons that Samwise Gamgee is looking forward to his seventeenth birthday. The first is, of course, that it’s his birthday: Sam has always loved an opportunity for a big get-together with his friends, after all. What’s teenagehood without a good birthday bash? And the second is perhaps what encompasses his anticipation: it’s his de-facto coming of age, the day his soulmate’s name will appear on the palm of his hand. He swears he can feel the skin humming away already, preparing.

He knows he shouldn’t be _too_ excited: almost all of the time, people don’t even know their soulmate by the age of seventeen. But he can’t help himself. It means that he’ll at least know the name - and, heck, maybe he _will_ know his soulmate! Nobody has laid down any rules. He ignores the thought of Merry and Pippin, who seem to have been steadfastly ignoring each other’s names on their palms - or, at least, they’ve not talked about it to Sam. Maybe to Frodo, but he hasn’t said.

But Sam, for one, is not going to let himself be put on a downer. He isn’t Merry, or Pippin. He’s _sure_ it’ll go well. He’s excited. He’s heard stories of what it’s like to have a soulmate: people sharing earworms, feeling shared emotion, even telepathic links. He knows they’re probably all urban myths - maybe he _should’ve_ spoken to Merry and Pippin, he’s sure he’s heard them both break simultaneously into song - but he holds onto the idea anyway, his stomach soaring with glee.

Sam can’t wait to be seventeen.

 

* * *

 

He’d kind of expected to be woken up during the night by the pain; but Sam sleeps through, and when he wakes up, he catches sight of the white of the script on his palm. He almost jumps out of his skin, scrabbling for the switch of his bedside globe lamp: he holds his hand under the faintly pink light emanating through Oceania, and his breath catches.

 _Frodo_ , it says. Oh God. Oh God.

Sam’s always known he loved Frodo; but he can’t believe that it’s like this, that his feelings run this deep. Frodo has been his childhood friend for years. He sort of thought that was how everybody who’d known somebody that long felt about them. And - does this mean that Sam is gay? Sam has never thought of himself as gay. He’s always liked Rosie, after all, hasn’t he?

But his seventeenth birthday is probably not the time for philosophising or what-have-you; he gets up and makes his bed, putting on his school uniform. Sam’s never been a fan; the blazers always nip a little, no matter what size he seems to get them, but they make him look professional, he thinks. As if he absolutely knows what he’s talking about. He likes that. Now, if only he could stop spilling his food on them, that’d really add to the appearance; he stays safe with toast for his birthday breakfast, slathered with butter and marmalade. There’s no time for his presents before school, not with the chaos of six or so children getting ready for school and college and his parents for work: they bid him a happy birthday one by one when they pass him by, but Sam’s real celebration will come after dinner, and then at his party at the weekend.

“Who’s the lucky girl, then?” his sister May badgers as Sam waters the cacti on the kitchen window. “You haven’t said a thing. I thought you’d be excited.”

“Well, I am, really. But - it’s just a little strange, is all. Wasn’t what I was expecting.” Sam holds out his hand, and May pores over it for a moment.

“It makes sense,” she says. “You two have always been sweet for each other.”

“I didn’t think it was, you know, _like that_.”

“You should kiss him.”

“Oh, you can’t go around kissing all your best friends, May.”

“He’s your soulmate, though.” May laughs, gently bashing his arm. “I know you’ll sort it out, though. You and Frodo. Could never fall out, the pair of you; it’d be the end of the world if you ever stopped talking to each other, wouldn’t it?”

“I rather think so,” Sam says bashfully, grabbing his rucksack from one of the family’s various coat stands. “Don’t forget your homework this time!” He grins, grabs another slice of toast, and heads off: he’s always been fond for leaving first, before the chaos. Frodo is habitually early to everything. He catches the bus half an hour before he really needs to, and more than once Sam has heard him mutter under his breath about Mr Gandalf being late. Sam doesn’t like the idea of Frodo being on his own, waiting all that time (Merry and Pippin are always late, of course), and so he makes it a point to hurry out the door before the crush of his siblings.

Thoughts of Frodo flood his brain. It’s impossible not to think about, now, and how he’s going to broach it hums around Sam’s mind like a bee. He considers messaging one of Merry and Pippin: he knows it’s maybe cliché to think of them, but they _are_ the only people he knows in such proximity to their soulmate. But neither of them are Frodo.

Sam’s stomach churns a little. He’s not sure he can finish his toast, and bins it, washing the last of his breakfast down with some water.

There is nothing wrong, he reminds himself, with being in love with Frodo. In fact, he has been all his life. He oughtn’t let himself feel differently because of the white letters on his hand.

As he rounds the corner at the end of his street, the school campus towering at the top of the hill, he perks up a little. He shouldn’t let himself be plagued so with anxiety. It’s his _birthday_! He thinks he might even allow himself to hum as he sneaks a bramble from a neighbour’s garden, and lets his mind wander out for a song-

except, the song that catches in his mind is one he’s pretty sure he doesn’t know. He’s never heard it before, but it plays crystal clear to him. _Tous les garcons et les filles de mon age, se promenent dans la rue deux par deux_ …

Sam doesn’t know any French. He _definitely_ doesn’t know enough French to string a sentence together; he’s been doing German for however many years and still has to consult a dictionary for basic words. This definitely isn’t his music - but it reminds him, oh so sweetly, of Frodo’s half-obscure music taste. Frodo’s always known more about music than Sam; Sam had still been playing the triangle by the time Frodo became proficient on the saxophone, he’s sure.

His heart swells a little at the thought that this is the music his soulmate is hearing.

Frodo’s got pretty good taste, after all.

Every morning, like clockwork, Frodo sits in one of the communal student areas, a little corner next to the garden with large window views. The students have always called the garden ‘The Shire’ - it’s tradition dating back so long that nobody really knows why, but Sam rather likes things like that. In the same vein, he’s been calling Frodo ‘mister’ his whole life, something that started when they were young and that he hasn’t broken out of the habit of.

Frodo is sitting there, as he always is. He’s eating a cold slice of toast and drinking something from the coffee machine that Sam detects easily as coffee.

“You should be eating your breakfast _before_ you leave the house, Mister Frodo,” Sam says, taking the seat opposite. Frodo’s eyes light up.

“Well, I might’ve if I hadn’t been so busy with this,” he says, lifting a gift bag from under his feet. Frodo’s always had a bit of a taste for the artistic, and it shows: his gift bag is thoughtfully colour-coordinated with his gift wrap, which has pictures of cats on it. Not only are Sam’s gifts neatly and perfectly wrapped, Frodo has also gone to the effort of tying each with a ribbon. Sam doesn’t even know how to do that.

“Ah, Mister Frodo, you shouldn’t have gone to so much effort.”

“It’s okay. It was fun. Go on, open them.”

“It feels like I’m desecrating it.”

“I took photos.”

“Maybe I should, too.”

“Sam,” Frodo says, a little more insistently, pushing the presents across the table. “Come on. I’ll send the photos to you. Just open them before the bell rings.” Sam can hear the excitement tinging his friend’s voice, and he nods, trying to be delicate as he undoes the ribbon and rips away all the paper. The sound feels as abrasive as he does, ruining Frodo’s handiwork so.

Frodo has bought him a book of poetry, one of Sam’s rather odd fondnesses, his lack of ability in English considered. Sam hasn’t heard of the poet - but he hasn’t heard of many beyond the classroom, so he takes nothing from it. “It’s a book,” Frodo says, “written in verse. It’s all poetry.”

“But how can someone write a book all in poetry?”

Frodo grins wirily; Sam is a little pleasantly taken aback by the mischief on his friend’s face, and he moves to unwrap more of Frodo’s birthday gifts. Frodo is a good gift-giver, attentive and thoughtful, helpfully worldly (“University Challenge fodder,” Pippin says sagely). Sam opens up an enamel pin of a cactus - the small cacti on the window are the only plants in the house that he owns himself, has bought with pocket money, and so he loves them a little dearer for it. Sam’s green-fingered, though: he keeps every plant in the house blossoming. He grew his own tomatoes one year, even.

He attaches the pin badge to his blazer. He doesn’t know if the school has rules against it, but he hopes and supposes not. “You’re too kind,” he says as he moves on: Frodo has teasingly wrapped a Tupperware box of his own chocolate cupcakes, recompense for all of Sam’s homemade shortbread that he’s eaten through the year. Finally, a new wallet (Sam’s old is spilling pennies by the dozen) and a card lovingly written in Frodo’s calligraphic hand.

“It’s a big birthday,” Frodo says cheerfully, his hands squeezing Sam’s for a moment before his fingers hover Sam’s rough palms. “Speaking of… who’s the lucky lady, Samwise?”

Sam smiles bashfully, paused by a moment of awkwardness and the feeling of Frodo’s featherlight tough before his gut instinct kicks him; he pulls back his hand, shaking his head. “We should wait for Merry and Pippin,” he says. “Isn’t fair to do it without them.” Frodo nods, and Sam supposes that he’s made a fair point - still, a feeling of rottenness washes over him for a moment. He’s been cunning. Half of his school year have Maths at the same time that the other have English - giving him the chance to talk to Pippin over some linear equations, a chance to figure out some plan of action. He can’t just drop the bomb on Frodo.

“I suppose,” Frodo frowns, sitting back and taking a sip of his coffee; but his expression fades back to joy. “Oh, I didn’t say - happy birthday, Sam. Should I sing?”

“Only if you want me to die of embarrassment.”

“That’s fair. Merry and Pippin will do it later, I suspect.”

“In front of as many people as possible.”

“Think of the crowd as your own personal choir,” Frodo says, and they both laugh, and sensation tingles over the skin of Sam’s hand.

 

* * *

 

“I think I’m going to fail,” Sam groans. Pippin isn’t even working from the textbook anymore; he’s been doodling in the squares of his exercise book for the past five minutes, and though Sam has been trying to put off any serious conversation by actually focusing, he thinks he’s about ready to give up. Equations are absolutely not his strong point.

“It’s taken you this long to realise?” Pippin asks, popping a sweet from his pocket into his mouth. “I wrote off my chances of passing this months ago. Class is much more fun when you’re not paying any attention. I’ll just get Merry to help me before exams.”

Sam wonders briefly how good Frodo is with algebra, then writes off the thought. He shouldn’t pester. “Go on and gives a sweet, would you?”

“Only for the birthday boy.” It turns out that what Pippin’s been eating the whole time is a small bag of Starmix, for which Sam’s vaguely grateful; Pippin’s love for sweet things is boundless, and not everything he likes, Sam so much agrees with. “Speakin’ of - let’s see the palm, Sam!” He cackles lightly at his own rhyme.

“Well,” Sam says, slowly unfurling the grip of his hand around his pencil, “that’s kind of the thing, see.” He lets the HB roll onto the desk, and tries not to watch Pippin gawp; it just reminds him of the predicament he’s found himself in.

“What’s the problem?” Pippin asks, sounding remarkably more chipper than Sam expected. “I mean, it’s Frodo. You two are pretty much in love already. And at least you’re not cousins. God, the family reunions are awkward.”

Sam hums. “I don’t know, but - are we? In love? Like that? I didn’t think… I liked boys.”

“Sam Gamgee, forcing yourself to think you like Rosie out of obligation and because the old Gaffer is desperate to marry you off at the age of nineteen doth not a crush make. Have another Haribo.”

“I’m not finished my first.”

“What are you two even talking about?” Eowyn asks, swivelling round from where she’s been sitting in front of them. Sam tries not to think about the fact that Gimli next to her seems to have had his interest piqued, too; he’d rather the whole school didn’t know about his business, but they sure might by the end of the day if his luck holds. “Who’s marrying who?”

“Nobody yet,” Pippin says playfully; Sam elbows him, flashing his palm at Eowyn.

“Oh, wow,” she says, taking a moment to mull it over. “Have you considered that maybe it isn’t _your_ Frodo?”

“I think so,” Sam sighs. “I keep hearing music in my head, and - well - it’s Mister Frodo’s sort. Old French music, or… or Cat Stevens, or… that sort of thing. And that’s a soulmate thing, isn’t it?”

“Huh,” Pippin says. “Never had that before. I mean, I can kind of - sense stuff. How Merry is feeling. What he’s up to. Where he is. Can occasionally taste his food, which would make a great diet. Just sort of comes, in flashes. Honestly, it’s just all weird.”

“Does Frodo know?” Eowyn asks. Sam shakes his head. “Just tell him. Nothing’s going to happen if you don’t tell him.”

“I just - I don’t know, I mean, Mister Frodo, he’s always been my best friend an’ that, and… In love with him? Really?” Sam fidgets, and Pippin pushes another Haribo into his hand sympathetically. “I didn’t think I was…”

“Listen,” Gimli says, spinning round. “I didn’t think I was gay until Legolas’s mouth was right firmly on top of me own, and then I had no idea how I didn’t notice before. I wouldn’t write yourself off so fast there,” and this is the remark whereby the teacher notices and calls out the group discussion. Sam picks up his pencil hesitantly, spinning it round on his fingers for a moment before setting back to the problems on the page. They, he supposes, have one right answer, at least. He can’t get these wrong.

 

* * *

 

It’d be no exaggeration on Sam’s part to say that lunch was the most important part of the school day, student-wise: it’s the time for friendship, for socialisation, for gossiping in circles round dining hall tables whilst equally bemoaning the tasteless pasta and dry-bottomed pizza. Most of his high school life, he thinks, seems to take place in the forty-five minute slot - and certainly, this is where most of the action happens. Sam passes at least two scuffles on his way to the coffee machine, which he deftly avoids.

His little group of friends have a regular table in the dining hall, well known to be theirs, and so he knows he’s assured a seat even though he’s held up seven minutes in the lunch queue, by which time they’re out of breaded fish and so he has to settle for a bowl of barely-cheesy macaroni and cheese instead, with a pot of not-quite-mixed chocolate Angel Delight.

Frodo pushes across his orange juice as Sam sits down; Sam shakes his head.

“Just because it’s your birthday doesn’t mean you should go skimping on your five a day, Sam,” Merry tuts.

“There’s tomatoes in the pasta,” he objects, but they taste so artificial that he sometimes wonders if they’re actual tomatoes at all and not just some kind of odd replacement. “I got coffee.”

“Is it coffee, or is it mud?” Pippin inquires.

“I think that coffee machine on the ground floor is very nice,” Sam huffs, but he smiles anyway as he tucks in to his lunch. Sam could never be sad with a bowl of hot food; he loves his lunch more than any other meal, just the pick-up he needs to get him through the day.

Frodo, however, is not one to be lured completely by lunch; he leans in, close to Sam, his eyes glittering. “So,” he says. “I haven’t forgotten. Go on and show us your hand, Sam.”

Merry and Pippin shoot each other a look; Sam should’ve known that, somehow, they would’ve managed to psychically transmit the knowledge to each other, or some such. Though, he thinks, maybe they just had a class together, or texted. It always just seems that they _know_. But they can’t save him now, and Sam gently holds out his hand, letting Frodo peer over it.

He doesn’t say anything, except a very short and breathy “oh”.

Sam wishes he had something to say himself, but they sit in an uncomfortable silence for longer than he thinks he can bear before Merry barges in. “So!” he says loudly, with a clatter of his fork against his plate. “How was Maths today, Pippin? Did you actually _do_ anything?”

“What do you think?” Pippin snorts, turning to Sam for confirmation; Sam is glad to have been liberated from his trapped moment with Frodo, and returns to eating his lunch as if nothing had ever happened.

“Think he’s more interested in eating sweets,” Sam confirms, letting his friends steer the conversation away; but he can’t stop himself from staring at Frodo, and what’s worse is that sometimes Frodo’s eyes catch his, too.

 

* * *

 

Sam’s afternoon is rather torturous; he almost steams out of his last period Food Tech class to pick Frodo up from History, and though he knows it’s going to be awkward, he feels that he really does have to talk to Frodo in private.

Much to his relief, Frodo is still there, standing outside of the classroom waiting. He falls easily into step with Sam, fingers playing with the strap of his rucksack. “I’m sorry for earlier,” he says immediately. “I wasn’t expecting to see my own name. It was all a little surreal.”

“For me, too,” Sam sighs. “I mean, waking up, and seein’ your name right there, and when I always thought I liked girls, see… and what with you being my best friend and all, I didn’t get it, really.” He pushes his hands into his pockets as they step outside, defending them from the last chill still present in the air. It’s almost given way to the warmth signalling the approaching summer, but Sam’s hands always get cold. “Maybe we can - ignore this stuff. For now. If that’s what’d be easier for you, that is.”

Frodo pauses for a moment. “I don’t know,” he says.

“Did you know? About liking boys?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.” Frodo lets out a little stream of air, pressing his shoulder against Sam’s. “To be frank, Sam, I just don’t know about any of this. I don’t know how I feel, or how I should feel.”

“We don’t have to do anything now, Mister Frodo. We can think about it, if you want.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Frodo smiles, looping his arms around the security of Sam’s chest; he’s always loved hugging Sam, always found a certain security in him, in the strength of his back and his roundness. “No homo.”

Sam chokes out a surprised laugh, clapping Frodo on the back before shoving him away in fits of giggles. He’s glad for this, for their easy return into the comfortable friendship they’ve had their whole life, and at Sam’s suggestion, they even stop off at their favourite ice cream shop. Sam doesn’t want any of this to be awkward, and more importantly, he doesn’t want to put any sort of pressure on Frodo. This is his burden, the name on _his_ hand.

“Are you going to order something different?” Frodo teases, peering down at the rows and rows of different brightly-coloured flavours. Sam clicks his tongue.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with cookie dough ice cream.”

“Have some adventurous spirit. Like Pippin.”

“Don’t you go forgetting that time he gave us one of those Hershey’s Kisses. Tasted like puke. I wouldn’t trust Pippin far as I can throw him.”

“I don’t think you could throw him far, since he’s such a food fanatic.”

The two of them finally get to the front of the queue; Frodo orders some bubblegum ice cream, a new flavour for his much more diverse palate, and Sam decides to break away from his norm by ordering hot cookie dough instead of the ice cream flavour. He can feel Frodo’s eyes on him, and he flushes.

“This is adventurous,” he says.

“I know,” Frodo says softly. “I didn’t say anything. I’m very proud of you.”

“Ground rule. No patronising me over dessert choices.”

They sit at one of the booths by the window, Sam scrolling through the group chat and Frodo browsing the menu for no particular reason other than to look. “You know,” Sam says, “I was talking to Eowyn, in Maths, and I showed her my hand, and she genuinely asked me if I was sure it was you, like the world was full of Frodos.”

“We’re swarming the world, you know, Sam.”

“Though, you know, I’ve been hearing stuff. In my head. Music and the like, and I think it’s related to you - I think it’s what you’ve got stuck in your head, and sometimes I can tune in. I just want to know if that’s real.”

Frodo twirls his spoon in his tub, and has a mouthful of bright blue ice cream. “What kind of songs are you hearing?”

“This morning, there was one in French?”

Frodo goes still, and Sam worries he’s said something wrong; but Frodo reanimates soon enough, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s real, that’s me. Françoise Hardy.”

“It was a nice song, that.”

Frodo smiles, his cheeks flushing red; he looks away from Sam’s slightly too intense gaze, and Sam shifts, scrabbling for his bag, muttering something about equations and pulling out his textbook. Frodo has always been better at maths than he has, and there’s no better way to diffuse any tension than by throwing schoolwork into the mix. “Uh, I hate to ask you this,” Sam says bashfully, “but I don’t really get this whole - linear equation stuff. I was hoping you could help me. I know Merry knows how to do it, but…”

“He’s Merry,” Frodo finishes. “Yeah.” He pulls Sam’s textbook over, glancing down at the rows of questions. “Okay, I think I can help you with this. If you give me some of your cookie dough.”

“Only if I can have some of yours.”

“Brave of you.”

As Sam takes an experimental spoonful of sweet bubblegum ice cream, and Frodo grins at him across the table, he feels his stomach both simultaneously soar and sink, because in that moment it hits him that there’s a feeling inside of him he can’t push aside anymore. He takes a slow breath.


	2. the advice of the fellowship

 

>  
> 
> _The less we say about it the better_  
>  _Make it up as we go along_  
>  _Feet on the ground, head in the sky_  
>  _It's okay, I know nothing's wrong, nothing_
> 
> _Oh! I got plenty of time_  
>  _Oh! You got light in your eyes_  
>  _And you're standing here beside me_  
>  _I love the passing of time  
>  _
> 
> -Talking Heads, “This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)”
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _The salmon-trout drifts in the stream,_  
>  _The soul of the salmon-trout floats over the stream_  
>  _Like a little wafer of light._
> 
> -Ezra Pound, “The Fish and the Shadow”
> 
>  

 

Sam gave up tuba when he was fourteen; in contrast, Frodo plays tenor saxophone in the wind band and has already achieved his Grade 7 proficiency, and also plays guitar and sings in the school’s covers band, The Fellowship, made up of the best music students (or, alternatively, the ones who can’t say no to anything). Sam, of course, sits through all of Frodo’s practices: he prefers it to homework, and wonders if this much exposure to music will make him a little more cultured.

He likes the cover band practices, really. Galadriel plays piano, Eowyn bass guitar, Gimli percussion, and with the occasional addition of Legolas for just about anything else; it gives Sam the opportunity to make friends with them, to feel as if he’s not always only talking to Merry and Pippin.

And, better still, when Frodo isn’t in the room, it gives him a chance to discuss the ongoing predicament of his strengthening feelings. They’re beginning to take shape in his mind, to demand a name, and the idea of addressing them makes him nervous.

“Just tell him you like him, Sam,” Eowyn says, exasperated, tuning her bass to a phone app. “That’s the only way anything is going to happen.”

“No,” Legolas interjects. “Frodo’s definitely a little bit closeted. That might scare him off.”

“But how is Sam meant to get him out the closet?”

“Legolas’s face did it for me,” Gimli offers cheerily, and Sam watches the boy melt into his chair with embarrassment. “Maybe you should just go for it and kiss him. That’s a surefire way to get the gay out there.”

“Jesus Christ, Gimli.” Legolas pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Well, _excuse_ me for trying to help.”

“That’s as good a piece of advice as ‘learn the harmonica and serenade Frodo with it’.”

“Not a bad plan, there.”

“Can already play the mouth organ,” Sam offers, flushing at Gimli and Eowyn’s simultaneous looks of surprise. Is it really that shocking that he can do something? He knows he’s little more to this group than Frodo’s friend, but his stomach pits for a moment. “Not sure Mister Frodo’d like it much, though.”

“I think,” Galadriel says slowly, “that when it comes down to it, Frodo will make the first move.”

“The oracle has spoken,” Gimli declares. “Write that down, Sam. She’s always right.”

Sam frowns, quite unsure how Galadriel could be right when Frodo seems so anxious, but he nods, typing her words down into his Notes app; he looks up as the door opens and Frodo comes in from the bathroom humming, and he can’t help himself but smile at the sight as Frodo takes his seat and his guitar.

Oh, Sam’s hopeless.

 

* * *

 

He is, at least, not as hopeless as to have bagged a third detention with Mr Saruman in the past two months: Merry and Pippin have scarcely seen the better part of lunchtime, and on the evening that Frodo has wind band (which Sam isn’t allowed to sit in on), they invite him out to KFC for some sort of dinner (Sam’s not totally sure he can really constitute popcorn chicken and some fries as a real dinner). Sam has probably memorised the inside of the area’s fast food establishments: Pippin’s a real fan, of course.

“What’s the deal with Galadriel?” Sam asks. “Gimli called her ‘the oracle’ or something.”

“Oh my God,” Pippin says, leaning forward. “She can actually tell the future. She knows everything. She’s amazing. Did she tell you something? What did she say?”

Sam knows he shouldn’t, but reluctantly, he bluffs out. “No, but she said something to Frodo, and then Gimli called her the oracle. How can she always be right? What sort of things does she say?”

“Oh, all sorts. At the start of high school, way back when, we had science together, and I was telling her about this girl I liked who had a boyfriend, and she told me that I shouldn’t worry about it, that the boyfriend thing would sort itself out. Sure enough, like three weeks later or something, her boyfriend kisses _me_ and tells me he likes _me._ Problem sorted.”

“I’m sorry, how did that solve the problem?”

“I got a boyfriend!”

Sam sits back. “It seems a little vague.”

Merry sighs dramatically. “Oh ye of little faith, Sam Gamgee. I can one-up that.” He leans in, shaking off his shoulders, settling a serious expression on his face. “She literally told me that my soulmate was going to be Pippin. Before it all happened. You better find out what she said to Frodo.”

“Like he’s gonna tell me,” Sam scoffs. “If it’s - you know - about me, that is.” He feels bad. He’s slightly in too deep with this bluff, and Pippin looks like he’s ready to interrogate Frodo over Facebook Messenger for the truth; and he’s still unsure about whether or not he has any faith in Galadriel’s words, anyway.

“He tells you everything,” Merry says, waving a hand. “You’ll get it out of him. Somehow.”

“Ooh la la,” Pippin giggles, and Sam rolls his eyes, finding himself laughing anyway. Most people would just make fun of him for this, for all his confusion and his uncertainties and his insecurities - but Merry and Pippin, jokes and all, make him feel a little better. And they want everything to turn out well for him, too.

Sam really just wants things to be okay, for him and Frodo both.

He groans, resting his head on the table. “I think I’m in too deep,” he says.

“Yeah,” Merry says, unfazed. “His name is on your hand, Sam.”

“No, I mean - just - that I really like him. Mister Frodo. A lot. So much. Oh, God, Merry, what am I going to do?”

Pippin flashes Sam a vague and facetious look of offence, but lets Merry lean forward, ruffling Sam’s mop of blond hair. “Don’t worry about it, Sam,” he says, surprisingly seriously. Sam doesn’t think he’s seen Merry so serious, even about his own exams. “It’ll work out. It’s destined.”

“Eat your chicken,” Pippin says. “It’ll be going cold. You can worry about Frodo later. Or, preferably, not worry at all.”

“How could I _not_ worry?” Sam tugs at his hair for a moment before sitting and straightening up again, popping an unsatisfactory fry into his mouth.

“He’s got his own issues,” says Merry. “Let him work them out first.”

“Maybe he’ll write an angsty song about you,” Pippin adds. “He has that guitar, right?”

“But imagine Frodo trying to write angst.”

“A tame _Mr Brightside_?”

“More like _The Sound of Silence_. But with, like, a heavy chorus. Maybe a sax solo in the bridge for good measure.”

Sam zones out of their conversation, half-eating while he looks out of the window and into the faint drizzle outside. His thoughts drift to Frodo, and for a moment, he swears he can hear the faint echo of brass, woodwind, _Georgia on My Mind_ : and then he is hit, in that moment, by a vision that he can’t shake from his mind. He can see clearly the living room of a house, warm and furnished with beautiful bronze and brass tones; a record player in the corner continues the soundtrack, and from his omniscience, Sam can see himself. Older, though. Stronger in the shoulders, just a touch taller, with a better-fitting clothes, and he is waltzing lightly across the room with Frodo.

Frodo, though. Frodo in this dream is beautiful, his hair longer and beginning to curl round his shoulders. He’s dancing better, his fingers laced in with Sam’s, and his face is just the picture of bliss, _as moonlight through the pines_ …

Strings begin to illustrate Sam’s mind, an orchestra coming to life as the Frodo he longs to reach out to smiles and shifts up a little, his lips touching dream-Sam’s as sweet as a whisper - and that is when the illusion shatters, Sam’s vision snapping back to the now pouring rain outside the windows of the KFC on the street corner, Pippin’s hand reached out to him.

“You got a vision?” Merry asks. Sam closes his eyes, as if in hope that he’ll see it again, though he knows that his vision is gone with the swell of his feelings. He nods.

“My mam always said that you got a vision when you and your soulmate were feeling exactly the same thing, when they were in sync,” Pippin says curiously, but shakes his head. “If that’s true, then me and him have had some _very_ weird synchronised thoughts.”

“Did you get them often?” Sam asks. Pippin shakes his head.

“Like, once or twice,” he says. “Went away when I kissed him, though. Merry is the miracle cure.”

Sam pulls a face, and Pippin laughs; Sam stands up, excusing himself to the toilet for a moment. He feels a little dizzy, still, startled by his own vision: he’s never heard about soulmates having visions before, and though it warmed his stomach with joy, it’s still a little odd. In fact, everything is a bit weird, still, and he wishes he could talk to Frodo about it. Merry and Pippin are _something_ , and they’re great, but Sam longs for a little seriousness, for the comfort of Frodo’s little laugh and their solidarity.

Sam splashes his face with water, and hurries back upstairs.

 

* * *

 

Sam has a really bad habit of falling asleep in the library, and he finds himself awoken halfway through his English period by Legolas, who slides into the so-coveted library booth beside him. He casts half a glance at the book in Sam’s hands.

“It isn’t the best idea to fall asleep in your classes this close to exam time,” he says.

“I’m trying not to,” Sam promises, “but books just send me right off sometimes. And this library is awful warm, you know.” He shifts along, and offers Legolas a Breakaway biscuit from his bag; but Legolas is a library purist and shelf-stacker, and shakes his head. Sam scans his field of vision for the librarian, and, upon seeing no sign of her, wolfs it down sneakily.

“I’d argue that, if a book was doing its job, you’d be enraptured,” Legolas says, “but that’s not the point.” He rummages in his pocket for a moment, and then pulls out a slip of laminated paper, pushing it across the table to Sam. “We managed to get you a free ticket to the concert. I know you like to be in the front row.”

That’s true: Sam’s been sitting in the front row of all Frodo’s concerts for as long as he’s been able to badger money off the Gaffer for them. He doesn’t really know why: he can see fine from anywhere, and hear fine, but he just likes the proximity, being able to see everything that’s going on. He blinks. “Thank you,” he says, running his fingers over the edges of the ticket. “That’s too kind of you.”

“Everyone is feeling a little sorry for you,” Legolas admits. “What with the whole situation with Frodo. I think I could say that everyone is rooting for you.”

“That’s good of them,” says Sam, “but won’t do much for me, mind.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

“I’ll see him at lunch time.”

“I know you don’t want to broach the topic with him. But maybe you ought to. It’s not common knowledge, but when you’re in close proximity to your soulmate and have unresolved feelings, that’s what causes visions to occur. Merry said you had one. He had a lot last year.”

Sam looks over, surprised. “How did you know about Merry?” Even _he_ barely knows anything about Merry and Pippin’s history as soulmates, and he’s their friend.

“I used to help out in the nurse’s office - simple things, like filing and making sure all the student medications were stocked and up-to-date. Registering student absences when they went home, and the sort. But I saw Merry there a lot: his visions became so strong to the point that he used to pass out whilst having them, and he would be too dizzy to walk for a while after. It transpired that he and Pippin were simply trying to ignore the entire issue, and it rather backfired on them through the force of their own emotional intensity.”

Sam groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The idea of passing out terrifies him - he doesn’t want to end up like that, trapped. “I hate being a teenager,” he says.

Legolas laughs. “Don’t we all,” he says. “Still. Try not to be alarmed.”

“You came and said something quite alarming there, Legolas, so I think I’m entitled to be alarmed.”

“And there’ll be no reason to be alarmed if you talk to Frodo, and no further reason to be alarmed if you revise instead of falling asleep.” Legolas reaches for the strap of his messenger bag, looking set to leave, but Sam catches him suddenly, a question bubbling in his chest that he just doesn’t quite know who to ask.

“Can I ask something a bit serious here?” he asks. Legolas settles.

“Go on,” he says. Sam nods, a little nervously.

“Does it matter if I, like - don’t know whether I’m gay, or straight, or bi? I mean, I s’pose I’m not straight, not since I like Mister Frodo and that, but… does it matter if I don’t really know at all?”

Legolas seems to ponder a moment. Sam’s worry ferments a little. “No,” he says simply. “Not at all. We’re seventeen. There are still plenty things we don’t know about ourselves yet. Just focus on things with Frodo, and there’ll be time to sort everything out later. And don’t forget to revise.”

Sam winces just at the thought of more revision, but nods anyway. “Thanks,” he says.

“Any time, Sam.”

 

* * *

 

Lunch couldn’t come any faster: Sam almost runs out of the library, his textbook tucked under his arm, and tries desperately to think of where Frodo’s last class was. He knows that it must’ve been Maths, since he just had English, but the Maths corridor is long and looming (with Mr Saruman’s classroom right at the end) and Frodo could be anywhere between either end.

Luckily, he just so happens to run into Frodo as he hurries up the stairs to the corridor: his friend is just coming out, and smiles. “Oh, Sam! Aren’t you going to the canteen?”

“Well, y’see, I was thinking, how do you fancy going to Isengard?”

Isengard is the chip shop a five-minute walk away from school; it’s a student favourite, always packed out and well-known for having the best chips in town. Besides that, Sam likes the pizza slices, too. It’s one of his favourite haunts in town, and if he and his friends can’t be found in the canteen, it’s a guarantee that they’ll be somewhere between the school and the counter of Isengard.

“What about Merry and Pippin?” Frodo asks, guiding Sam out of the way of the general staircase and towards the one that leads to the back of the school. It may be further away from the gate, but it’s less mobbed, so they make up the time. It’s always a little bit of a challenge to get to Isengard first, before the queue builds up and out the door.

“Thought we should talk, just the two of us,” Sam says, a little bashfully; but Frodo doesn’t say anything else, just nods. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

They don’t talk about anything meaningful on the way there: just about their classes, and the memes that Pippin has been making of their teachers on the group chat, and about how Frodo is getting gradually more nervous for his solo at the spring concert. They share a large bag of chips between them with salt and sauce, and because spring is almost segueing into summer and has brought a rise in temperature with it, they take a seat at a bench just outside the school grounds.

“I suppose you want to talk about the soulmate thing,” Frodo says. “I’m sorry that we haven’t spoken enough about it before.”

“It’s okay,” Sam shrugs. “It’s been a little hard for me, too. To deal with all this. Feelings, and that.”

“That doesn’t make it fair. But I’m just still a little… overwhelmed.”

“Oh, I understand that, Mister Frodo. Last month, I thought I was straight, and there’s been a heck of a lot of changes since then.” He laughs. “But everyone’s been very nice, see, so it hasn’t been so hard at all.”

“I’m glad. Legolas said he had spoken to you. He said I was lucky to have you.”

Sam makes a mental note to thank the older boy later. In fact, he makes a note to thank all of Frodo’s bandmates. “He gave me a ticket for the concert. Front row seat. Free.” He can’t help but grin at the thought; he’s so excited for the concert, excited to see Frodo play. Frodo is always nervous before, of course, but just ecstatic afterwards.

Frodo rests his head on Sam’s shoulder; Sam stiffens for a moment, then relaxes. They’ve been close like this for years. Sam shouldn’t let anything change that.

It takes a long time, and a breath longer still, but Frodo says “I’m gay”.

“Okay,” says Sam, and that’s all.

They take the remaining chips back to the canteen and split them with Merry and Pippin, who don’t ask after their whereabouts, much to Sam’s great relief. They’re far too absorbed in describing a story from their history class with Mr Gandalf, gesticulating wildly at a giggling Frodo, and when they sit back to laugh over their teacher’s growingly infamous proclamation of “fool of a Took”, Sam notices that their hands are clasped together under the table, Merry’s hands bashed from woodwork and Pippin’s slighter and smoother.

For some reason, the sight fills him with hope.

 

* * *

 

Sam returns home in a very good mood: he whistles as he switches on the kettle, rifling in the cupboards and wondering what he’ll make for his turn at dinner tonight. He can hear the noises of his more timely siblings (Sam likes to amble home, while talking to Frodo) crashing around upstairs, and tries to count the number of distinct voices to see if he should put dinner on yet.

“Sam,” the Gaffer says from behind him. Sam turns, surprised.

“You’re home early,” he says, but the excitement creeps into his voice all the same.

“Took a half-day. I’ve barely seen you since your birthday, Sam-lad! Put the tea on and come sit.”

Sam takes a moment, making sure that the tea is made just right (anything else wouldn’t do: Sam is a tea purist, which is why he only drinks coffee out of the machines at school). His dad drinks extra strong, whereas Sam resolves for one of his sisters’ herbal varieties: the box says it’s for calmness, and with exams looming, Sam could always use some of that. The Gaffer takes out his pipe, and Sam cracks open the window.

It’s easy, to start with. They talk about school, Sam’s exam prep, a digression into local changing traffic laws and the last week’s news, and finally, it comes round to the topic of Sam’s birthday. His dad had been there for Sam’s birthday meal, where his mum had cooked all his favourite food and baked him a cake, but with Sam on the other end of the table, they hadn’t really had the chance to talk.

Sam knows where this conversation is going. He feels something drop in the pit of his stomach.

“Uh, dad,” he says quickly. He might as well set himself off on the path to doom. “About my birthday - I’ve got something to tell you, see.”

He takes a deep breath, and holds out the palm that seems to have become the focus of his life.

The Gaffer sucks on his pipe. “Little Frodo? That lad?”

Sam is waiting for the inevitable shame to fall over his father’s face. “Yeah. Bilbo’s Frodo.”

A beat passes between them, but the Gaffer does nothing but settle back on his haunches and smile. “Bless him. Was always a sweet one.” He takes a puff; the smell of tobacco always reminds Sam of being small, of being bounced on a relative’s knee, the sound of his dad’s laugh at family gatherings.

“You’re not angry?”

“Whatever makes you happy.”

Oh. Sam is almost disappointed that it went so well; it seems suspiciously easy, like something is going to go disastrously wrong in the next moment and as if he’s been lulled into a false sense of security. He thumbs the pin on his blazer. “Oh,” he says, a little dumbly.

“You were expecting me to be angry, weren’t you?”

“A little,” Sam admits. “I didn’t think it was going to be this easy.”

The Gaffer laughs. “It’s not like I’m going to be deprived of grandchildren.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, smiling teasingly. “I could adopt. Thirteen kids sounds nice.”

“Sam Gamgee, don’t you dare do that to me,” his dad says sternly, but with a warm laugh that strikes Sam’s heart: his emotions wobble, and he feels tears suddenly prick his eyes. Sam wishes he wasn’t such an easy crier.

“I really like him,” he says. He does. It’s almost too much sometimes. The Gaffer doesn’t need clarification.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that’s a good start.”


	3. the prophecy of the oracle galadriel

 

> _& before we were messy flesh, i’m sure we were the same dust  
>  _-Danez Smith, “acknowledgements”
> 
>  
> 
> _I can't tell one from the other_  
>  _Did I find you or you find me?_  
>  _There was a time before we were born_  
>  _If someone asks, this is where I'll be, where I'll be_
> 
> -Talking Heads, “This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)”

 

The concert rapidly approaches, and with it, all-day rehearsals. _Frodo’s lost to us now_ , Pippin says at the start of the week, and he’s not wrong: Sam only sees Frodo at the odd break and when they walk home together. Sam catches glimpses of Frodo when he’s drafted by a music teacher to help with organising the chairs, but just glimpses from afar: Frodo is busy talking to Legolas, who’s playing flute, and only notices Sam when he’s leaving, but flashes him a wave anyway.

In accordance with the simultaneous disappearance of Legolas and Galadriel, Gimli and Eowyn (both too sensible, after getting themselves stuck in the Fellowship, to get dragged into school concerts) join Sam’s increasingly ragtag group of friends, requiring an extra chair at their canteen table. As exam season bites, lunch becomes an occasion of revising and essay-writing in the presence of food, and Sam’s grateful for the extra help.

“What we need to do here is rearrange Pythagoras so that we can determine the value of _a_ . We need to substitute in _b_ and _c_ for the values we’re given, and then we need to isolate _a_ on one side of the equation. So, what are we moving first?”

Sam really hadn’t actually expected Merry to so seriously take up the post as Pippin’s maths tutor, but Merry seems to take it in his stride; Sam prefers to bunk down with a biology textbook and a bowl of soup, trying to memorise process after process; but it’s too easy to get distracted, and he sighs, putting his pencil down and reaching for his juice.

“Isn’t revising just depressing?” Pippin yawns, half-startled as Merry leans in and kisses him.

“No,” Sam says. “Just boring.”

“Amen to that,” Gimli grunts, throwing his notes down in disgust and knocking over Eowyn’s Angel Delight.

“Hey!” She looks ready to have words with him, but Sam hands her his slightly dubious-looking chocolate brownie, and it placates her enough not to start a fight in the middle of the canteen, though Sam feels a pang of regret. He could’ve used a good food fight.

“I came out,” he says, to not one particular person but mostly to Merry and Pippin. “To my dad.”

Pippin’s eyes spark with concern. “How did it go?” he asks. Sam remembers hearing that Pippin’s conservative parents didn’t take the news of their son’s inclinations very well, but Pippin doesn’t talk about it, so Sam only knows the hearsay, which also dictates that he and Frodo frotted loudly in the toilets by the English staff room, leaving it of dubious repute.

“It almost went too well,” Sam laughs, but he’s not sure the laugh rings. “I keep waiting for someone to jump out and tell me that it was all a ruse.”

“Things are progressive now,” Merry shrugs. “And, you know, I learned in this documentary that a lot of people really believe in the soulmate thing. They think you should trust in fate, and if fate says that you love another guy, then so be it. People are weird.”

“I still can’t believe you watch documentaries,” Pippin says, shaking his head. “You swot.”

“My first celebrity crush was Louis Theroux. I can’t go back now.”

“How am I supposed to love someone who watches _documentaries_?”

Sam laughs and turns away from their conversation and to Gimli, who’s now shoving his books away in his bag while muttering that they’ll never see the light again; sensing that he shouldn’t interrupt, he makes to turn for Eowyn when his ears begin to ring so loudly that they drown out the noise of the younger years shouting and the clattering of cutlery. Sam scrabbles for the table just as his eyes white out, and he takes a deep breath, letting the vision wash over him.

He’s had two since the first, and he’s used to them, almost. They’re nonsense, he knows now: in one, he and Frodo had been crew mates on board a cruise liner and had kissed in a moment of solitude in the corridor; in another, they had been roommates at a sprawling American college with a lush green campus and proud fraternity houses, and were sitting together in the common room, putting on a new record by the Bobby Fuller Four. But they make Sam’s heart yearn, and he wonders if, in that moment, Frodo feels even a fraction of the same.

This time, he’s standing on the porch of a dark house, music blaring from the inside. A vague understanding comes to him that someone inside has stolen something from him. Frodo is standing next to him. Frodo is here to help him.

Sam walks up to the front door and hesitates; Frodo nods, and in a rush of courage, Sam raps on the door.

Upon no answer, Frodo moves past him, kicking the only half-hinged door down with relative ease and bursting into the sitting room. Sam can see it all in his mind’s eye: him asking for his things back, Frodo backing him up bravely. Sam would do anything for Frodo; everybody knows that.

The thought that Frodo would do the same is so strong that it punches him through to reality, back to the canteen table, to the taste of chicken nuggets at the back of his mouth. Merry forces him to drink some juice and Eowyn gives him back his brownie, despite Sam’s insistence that he’s fine. Which he is. Just a little spaced out, and just a little disoriented.

He walks slowly to class, listening to the hum of jazz in his ears.

 

* * *

 

Frodo has to get to the concert early to set up, but Sam walks with him and Bilbo anyway. Sam is a little too warm, wearing a jumper over his shirt to try and be a nice mix of smart and comfy. He reaches out for Frodo’s hand, and finds it almost as clammy as his own. Not that Sam could ever mind.

Bilbo goes for a coffee upon arrival at the church serving as venue, so Sam sticks with Frodo for a while, wandering around the corridors. He helps Frodo sort out his tie and listens to the saxophones tune up before he’s ushered off and away, and once he’s entered the raffle, he has nothing to do but wander around, watching the evening light filter through stained glass paintings of Biblical scenes and iconography, splashing colours onto the floor.

Sam finds it breathtaking, and as he crouches to run his fingers across the mosaics, music filters into his mind, so strongly it’s as if he’s listening through earphones.

“ _So I reached up to touch but they faded too soon_ _  
_ _Yet their mouths still remained and stacked up towards the moon_ _  
_ _How that ladder of mouth waved so soft in the night_ _  
_ _And I looked up in awe at that beautiful sight_   
And I dreamt about climbing into the night sky…”

He turns on a vague instinct, almost expecting to see Frodo behind him, conducting the symphony harmonising with the architecture of the church, the details in every corner that flow with the beauty just in their subtlety.

Sam doesn’t wonder, this time, if Frodo feels this same love for the world. This time he knows that the feeling that warms his chest flows between them.

 

* * *

 

Frodo performs four times: twice with the wind band, and then twice with his own, supporting other features. The wind band perform after the interval, but Sam is still mighty impressed during the interval, taking a complementary cup of juice and finding Merry and Pippin in the crowd, still surprised that they’d come.

“It’s a recommended couples’ activity,” Merry says, gesticulating with his cup. “Going to concerts. Not sure if ‘watching your soulmate perform and longing from afar’ is up there.”

“It’s not so bad,” Sam laughs. “He’s good.”

“God, if you two don’t kiss, I’m going to go mental,” Pippin groans, shaking his head, letting his attention drift to the raffle table. “You know, if I don’t win that Starbucks hamper, I will be _so_ disappointed.”

The second half of the concert is much more fun for Sam than the first: they play some more popular music that he actually recognises, and of course, he gets to see more of Frodo, the de facto leader of the tenor saxophones. Frodo lights up when he plays, vivacious through his solos: he may be small and sweet, but he’s a force of nature behind an instrument, and Sam can’t help but swell with pride.

He has to resist the standing ovation at the end, but he can’t resist blubbering a little with joy: Merry hands him a tissue before heading off home, and Sam waits in the corridor for Frodo, keenly holding the box of chocolates he snagged in the raffle.

Frodo is one of the last out, wearing his denim jacket with his saxophone in its case strewn over his shoulder. He can’t keep the smile from his face as he sees Sam, and beams.

“That went okay,” he says at the same time that Sam exclaims “that was amazing!”, and Frodo laughs, tucking himself neatly into Sam’s embrace.

Sam had organised to stay over at Bilbo’s, and he has a messenger bag full of his things that knocks against his hip as he walks, gushing to Frodo about how much he enjoyed the show and about how much he’s missed Frodo at lunch time but also how much Frodo would’ve loved the addition of Gimli and Eowyn to their group, and about how maybe they can all be friends and have a new and bigger group, and Frodo just takes it all in.

“That song,” Sam says bashfully, “that was in your head before the concert - it was very nice, Mister Frodo.”

Frodo pauses, indicating that Bilbo go on and enter the house and that he’ll just be outside. “Sam, I - I don’t even know what to say to you. I feel this amazing feeling sometimes and I know that it’s you, and it makes me feel so safe, and calm. It’s like home. I shouldn’t have let myself be so scared. It just felt so soon to have to admit to other people that I’m queer.”

“We don’t have to rush,” Sam says kindly, his heart skipping a beat as Frodo reaches up and touches his cheek.

“I’ve kept you waiting long enough,” he says, and, without hesitation, leans in and kisses Sam. Sam is so overwhelmed that it takes him a moment to regain control of his senses, to touch his hands to Frodo’s back, to his neck, to his flushed face. He feels so warm, so small but strong, determined.

“That was very nice,” Sam says, a little dumbly but with all the honesty in the world.

“Wasn’t it?” Frodo says, and then, with a playful grin, “would you like to come in, Sam?”

“Oh, that seems only proper,” Sam says, his hand finding Frodo’s, their fingers intertwining like the acceleration of their heartbeats.

 

* * *

 

Sam has been in Frodo’s bedroom before, but he never ceases to be amazed by it: Frodo has a certain penchant for interior decor, combined with a passing interest in feng shui, and he’s taken the principles to his room, which seems to combine furniture minimalism with poster maximalism. Sam doesn’t really know how to describe it, except that Frodo’s walls are beautifully organised and every poster is somehow perfectly and mathematically in line. Merry would be proud.

Bilbo has bought them a cake for the occasion - just store-bought, but like Sam could ever complain, and they take it and a knife up, cutting it into slices and eating it on novelty cat plates from Bilbo’s eccentric crockery collection. Frodo has a double bed with plenty room for them both to sit - or, as in the past, lie and watch Netflix together. Platonically, of course.

 _Platonically_. God, Sam wonders sometimes how he managed not to notice his attraction to men before; it’s so obvious now, really.

“You know, um, Merry messaged me on Facebook last night,” Frodo says through a mouthful, skimming through his list. “He told me about your visions. Sam, I’m so sorry. They were all my fault.”

“That ain’t true,” Sam says immediately, almost tripping up over his own words in haste to dispel Frodo’s anxieties. “Takes two to tango, right? Besides that, it’s not like either of us invented the visions, and - well, if I’m honest, Mister Frodo, I liked them.”

“Will you tell me what you saw, Sam?”

“It’s a bit embarrassing, mind…”

“Please?”

“Go on, then.” Sam grins, clambering on top of Frodo’s bed so they’re lying side by side, just like they always used to. “Well, in one of them, you and me were working as waiters on one of those fancy cruise liner ships. We were bringing out dinner one night to all the guests, and oh they were really dressed in all their nicest clothes, and the food looked so good. It took us a while to get all the food out, harder still because the boat was rocking a little and the plates wouldn’t stay still, and we kept looking at each other, see, from across the room. You had this short hair and you were wearing this uniform. And after we had gotten all the food out, we were meant to stick around in case someone wanted something, but you walked into the corridor and I followed you, and I turned around and I kissed you, and it was all very emotional.”

Frodo sits in silence for a moment, and Sam worries that he’s overshared, that he should have made up some tame vision or at the very least used the Ivy League college one instead. “I really hope that isn’t the future,” Frodo says eventually. “I get so seasick.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, letting himself tease a little bit, “you looked very nice in that uniform.”

“Sam!” Frodo laughs, batting at his shoulder. Sam grins, sticking his hands up in feeble defence, trying and failing to contain his own fit of giggles when Frodo catches his wrists lightly, leans in, and kisses him. Sam stills for a minute, startled; he’s still a little in shock, he supposes, that Frodo can love him back like this.

Frodo shifts. “Sam?”

Sam sniffs. “Sorry. I just - wow. I can’t believe I’m here. With you. It feels like a dream.”

“A good dream, I hope.”

“The best,” Sam says, and kisses Frodo.

 

* * *

 

School still has a week left to go, even after the concert, and so Sam and Frodo have to be up woefully early the next day and march along to class. As usual, Sam has Maths, a subject he thoroughly believes should never be taught in the morning; it’s just not fair. There’s a lull even in the usually chatty morning corridors. Music students seem only half-awake, and Sam can see Gimli nodding off in front of him in class, revision abandoned. Pippin is texting Merry when Sam walks in, but lowers his phone immediately, elbowing him excitedly.

“Congratulations on kissing the one and true absolute love of your life and soulmate Frodo Baggins,” Pippin says cheerily, clapping Sam on the back with as much strength as he can muster. “I was honestly going to just shove your faces together if you didn’t kiss in the next week, so I’m glad you’ve taken the initiative.”

Sam doesn’t need to see his own reflection to know that he’s definitely gone tomato red, which worsens as Pippin flashes his phone screen. Eowyn has caught a far-away picture and sent it round their friend group on Snapchat; Sam feels a little dizzy about how many people have seen his first kiss.

“Well?” Pippin prompts. “How do you feel, having entered this new stage of life?”

Sam can’t keep the smile off his face as he says “very happy”; Pippin scrunches up his features.

“Gay,” he says, and Sam snorts, colouring in one of the squares in his grid workbook. Pippin yawns. “You better not write us off, you know. Merry and I have been amazing friends with you despite our clearly raging homosexual feelings for each other.” Behind the joke, Sam thinks he detects a slight hint of worry - he and Frodo have always been closest to each other, as have Merry and Pippin, and it would be easy to split them down the middle into two pairs. But Sam shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Actually, I think we’re going to be better friends. We’re all in this mess now, aren’t we?”

“That we are,” Pippin agrees. “Good. There’s no one else in this stupid school I’d rather eat lunch with.”

The morning passes in rather a haze for Sam, who feels as if he’s floating above the ground rather than walking on it. He stares out the window for most of his classes, and smiles to himself, listening to the sweet music that he can pick up just at the fringes of his hearing and that welcomes itself fully into his mind.

He meets Frodo to walk together to the canteen; thoughtlessly and easily, Frodo slides his hand into Sam’s, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're looking for me on Tumblr, you can find me at either bagginsffrodo or longbottomfranks! Come say hi!


End file.
